


Among Unkind Strangers

by Smallerthanlife



Series: The Hand that Guides a Blind World [2]
Category: Divinity: Original Sin 2
Genre: F/M, Mind Control, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-10-01 17:09:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20346370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smallerthanlife/pseuds/Smallerthanlife
Summary: “There were no stars that night. She sat shivering beside a fire. I was nervous. I had to chase her. My hand hated itself, tried to resist, but there is no resisting the Master’s song.”Sebille is forced to kill for the first time.





	Among Unkind Strangers

The box rocked back and forth as Sebille lay curled inside. Its motion was almost comforting. If not for the sickening anxiety roiling inside of her, she might have found it easy to close her eyes and drift away. But, with the uncertainty of her destination in mind, she could focus on nothing but the pounding of her heart. Throughout her months of captivity, she had endured long stretches of darkness and excruciating boredom, punctuated only by the Master’s visits. He only ever visited to train her or to rape her, or some combination of both. Earlier that day, when he had entered her tiny room, she had expected the typical routine. He would teach her stealth and subterfuge, and when her muscles were weak with exhaustion he would he push her to the bed. She touched the scar on her cheek. Most of the time, during the visits, he didn’t even give her the option of deciding whether or not to resist. But that day he had introduced something new. When he had ordered her inside of the box, she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of dread. Though her life as a slave was a horror, she could at least count on it to be predictable.

As the trip wore on, curiosity and trepidation warred inside of her. There had been no explicit explanation ever provided to her as to her purpose. Part of it was obvious, of course. The Master would spend hours with her, wringing out every last bit of pleasure he could steal from her flesh. But much of the rest was a mystery. Why train her in stealth? Why teach her exactly where to cut a body so it would bleed out the fastest? Why give her a priceless tool of assassination? She had hoped that he intended to use her as a bodyguard. In that case, he might let her see daylight again. There would be new places and people to see. Her duties might even distract her enough that she would be able to bear living most of the rest of her life in the dark. But in her heart, she suspected the truth was much more sinister. The threat of that truth had clouded her every thought since the Master had begun her training, no matter how she tried to forget.  


When she felt the box jerk to a stop, and the motions of travel ceased, her heart pounded so forcefully that she could barely breathe. She heard muffled voices from outside. Curious, she pressed her ear against the wood, struggling to make out even a word of the conversations. It was useless. As she lay back down, the anxiety was unbearable. Though she did not her know her Master’s purpose, surely it would require her to be let out of the box. Once she was out, it would only take a moment for her to escape. The thought gave her an unexpected hope. If she could find a single weak point in the scar’s magic, that would be all it would take. Surely she would be able to manage just a moment. As she steeled herself, she heard the latch from the box click. There wasn’t much light when the lid opened. Thick clouds blanketed the sky, blocking out the moon and stars. Still, she could make out tall, sickly trees and rotting undergrowth. A chilled wind rustled the dead leaves and she shivered. She almost welcomed the sensation. After all, when was the last time she had felt anything other than stale, tepid air against her skin? Just as was trying to orient herself to decide which direction she should run, a sharp snap of the fingers forced her spine to straighten. Her feet carried her the few steps to the Master as if she was in a dream.  


“Sebille,” he whispered. His cold, scaled hand reached up, cradling the back of her head. “I have a task for you, tonight.” Through her growing fear, she could not force herself to speak an acknowledgement. She wanted to study the forest around them, but only caught glimpses. The trees were dead and dying. Some stood, bare and diseased, while many littered the ground like scattered matchsticks. But Master began the song, a low, throaty hum that swelled into a melodious tenor. Suddenly there was nothing in the world but him. Usually, the song dulled her mind and emotions, but this time she still felt the terror through the haze. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t even look away from his eyes that only just reflected the sparse light.  


“There is an elf camped a mile north,” he said, pulling her closer with the hand resting gently on the back of her neck. “Go to her. Kill her. Once it is done, come straight back to me.” Even before he finished the explanation, her body was shaking. Every part of her soul pleaded with her muscles not to move. She wanted to stay and beg the Master not to make her do it. But her will dissolved, and her feet forced her to turn away. After a miniature eternity in a dark room, she hoped that a mile walk would feel like a long time. With every step through the forest, over fallen logs and through the rough terrain, her soul ached with the knowledge of what she was about to do.  


When she finally saw the unmistakable glow of a fire through the trees, she was almost excited, despite herself. How long had it been since she had actually seen fire? She was so enraptured that she almost forgot why she was there until she burst into the tiny clearing. The woman—barely more than a girl—looked up from the fire, startled. The fear in her eyes was quickly replaced by confusion.  


“Sebille…?” she asked, shocked. “Is that is really you? What are you doing here? Where have you been all this time?” But she didn’t know how to answer. Though the woman’s face and voice sparked some dim memory buried in Sebille’s mind, she didn’t have the strength to dredge it to the surface. She was nothing. Not an elf. Not a woman. Just a ghost. The woman stood up, glancing between Sebille’s right hand and her face. Looking down to her own hand, she realized that she was already holding her needle drawn and ready. The joy of recognition in her target’s face faded into fear. As Sebille took one stop forward, her prey turned and fled.  


Sebille’s feet urged her on, even as she screamed at herself to stop. She tensed the muscles in her calves and thighs, hoping to slow her movements, but it was useless. Nothing could stop the turn of events her Master had set in motion, Sebille least of all. As she ran, her lungs burned from lack of use. The elf she followed was fast. For a glorious moment she wondered if she might escape. If Sebille wasn’t able to catch her, what would happen? If she lost her trail, would Sebille be forced by the scar’s magic to run around the forest searching for her until the Master came looking for her? The thought made her stomach turn. He had never punished her. Of course, he’d done many things to her so repugnant it made her want to strip off her skin, but never had to punish her for a misdeed. With the slave scar she physically could not disobey, so there was no need. But what if, despite her honest efforts, the girl still got away? She hoped so, though she didn’t relish the idea of the punishment that would surely follow. Then, pushed forward by the scar, Sebille surged forward with a bust of speed, just as the elf tripped over a shrub, and tumbled to the ground.  


In an instant, Sebille was upon her. She knelt over her, one knee pressing against her spine, keeping her pinned to the ground. Beneath her, the girl scrambled, scraping at the dirt, at Sebille’s skin, and at whatever else she could reach. She wanted to hesitate and put off the inevitable. She wanted to be anywhere else in the world except for there, in the dying forest, with a terrified woman trapped under her. But her hand moved, and she watched herself stab the needle towards her as if watching someone else. In the dark, Sebille was not able to properly place the jab. The needle glanced off of one of the vertebrae at the back of her neck. The wound, though grievous, would not be fatal. At least not quickly. The elf woman screamed, and the sound echoed through the empty space. Sebille stabbed again, more out of a frantic desire to stop the screaming than the effects of the scar. But the screaming continued, even louder. Sebille flipped the girl onto her back and landed a third, brutal stab aimed towards her liver. This one sunk deep. The screams were separated by breathless gasps that spoke of an agony that even Sebille could not understand. Still, she found that she could not stop. In an ever-escalating panic, she stabbed again, and again, until she lost count. The girl eventually stopped screaming, though she still groaned and twitched. Sebille knelt there, beside her, frozen with inaction. The act was as good as done, though she would have to wait until the girl was finished dying before she returned. When the blood slowed, and Sebille confirmed the lack of a pulse with shaking fingers, she stood. In the silence, the sounds of her panting breath was thunderous. Though she could barely see anything in the dark of the forest this far from the fire, she stared at the blurred shape of the dead girl in front of her. The fresh memory of the feel of flesh yielding under her needle would not leave her mind. She retched into the rotting undergrowth, even as her feet forced her to turn away. After all, the Master had commanded her return immediately after the kill.  


The way back felt much further than the walk there. After what felt like a quarter-hour, she wondered if she had gotten lost or turned around. But soon enough, she stepped into the clearing where Master and his entourage waited. Though she felt eyes upon her, she couldn’t meet them. She looked down, inexplicably stunned by the bright red color of the blood drying on her hands. For a woman who spent her life in the dark, the color red seemed indecent, even in the dim torchlight. She fought the bizarre urge to hide her hands, as if she could hide the evidence of her guilt. Retching again, into the dirt, she felt burning eyes watch her. As soon as she was finished, she turned and went towards the box. She didn’t want them to see her. Inhabiting her own skin was painful enough. As she curled up into a corner of the box, an unseen hand closed the lid. The latch locked with an audible, satisfying click. How did the old saying go? ‘Lock her up, and throw away the key?’ There was no better fate for her that she could think of.  


Sebille had thought she had reached her lowest depth multiple times. She had thought so when Roost had ensnared her and laughed as he tortured her. She had thought so when she was sold to a man who terrified her. And, most of all, she had thought so when a Dreamer irreversibly scarred her very soul at the will of her Master. But now, lying in the black box covered in an innocent’s blood, she knew that she was wrong. There was nothing else that could compare to that low. The sound of the woman’s screams seemed to echo even there, and she clapped her hands over her mouth to stop her own screams. As sickening as her emotional agony was, she didn’t want the Master to hear her. She didn’t want anyone to as much as look at her ever again. The idea of seeing her own, pathetic state mirrored in someone else’s eyes made her feel sick. As she felt the box begin to move, her journey home began. She would get her wish. Before long, she would be back in eternal dark, with only the Master’s voice for company. Still, she kept her hands over her mouth and her belly ached with the effort of suppressing her screams. Her body was shaking now, wracked by rhythmic tremors that she only faintly recognized as sobs. She cried and shook until she didn’t know where she was, or who she was. She cried until she was a disembodied being of misery, subject to a torment she was certain would be without end. 

When she next woke, her head ached. She stretched, expecting to feel the stone wall of her tiny room, or the rustle of covers beneath her. But her elbow cracked painfully against the solid wood of the box. As she cried out and cradled her elbow, the memories flooded back. The woods. The elf woman. The blood. Sebille’s stomach tightened, and she was briefly worried that she was going to be sick, again. She focused on breathing, forcing herself to count to 10 with each inhale and exhale. Once the feeling stopped, she felt around and realized that the box was already open. She crawled out and was back inside the familiar room. Touching the wall to orient herself, she circled the space. She was grateful to find that there was a bath ready for her in the corner of the room. Unable to bear the feeling of blood and dirt caked on her skin any longer, she stripped quickly and stepped into the bath. The water was no longer hot, but it wasn’t quite cold. She washed quickly and thoroughly, sometimes scratching her skin in her desperation to make sure she was clean. By the time she was done, she was shivering.  


As she stepped out of the bath and dried off, she considered her discard clothes. The Master had given them to her just before forcing her into the box. During all other parts of her captivity, he had kept her perpetually naked. The security of clothes against her skin had felt so comforting, and she wasn’t ready to give it up. She picked up the shirt, rolling the woven linen between her fingers. As much as she longed to be clothed, she still couldn’t stomach of the idea of wearing something covered in the blood of the woman she had murdered. She dropped the shirt back to the floor, shuddering in disgust.  


Running her fingers through her hair to work out the tangles, she sat on the bed, propped up against the headboard. She could barely stand to think about the swirl of raw emotion inside of her. A large part was unexpectedly numb. The events of the night felt like little more than a horrific dream. But the more she went over the details in her head, the more certain she became that it had been no dream. As she sat and remembered, she was distracted by the sound of footsteps outside of her door.  


The door opened, and though no light fell through the doorway, she knew who it was. The snap of his fingers forced her to her feet, though she nearly fell over once she stood. Her head still throbbed, and she was dizzy. A scaled hand reached out to steady her. Though they couldn’t see each other, she had an odd feeling that he was studying her. This man, whoever he was, terrified her. He had a power truly beyond her comprehension. With just a song, he could overwrite her will. Who was to say that he couldn’t read her soul as another man would read her facial expressions?  


He ran his hands through her hair, surely noticing that it was freshly washed and still wet. His right hand moved to cup her check, and he traced circles with his thumb over her scar. When he leaned in to kiss her on the forehead, she had to bite her lip to keep from resisting. Compared to the hatred that flared to life in her, his gentleness shamed and confused her. Then, he reached his hand to pinch one of her bared nipples. She wasn’t surprised at his intentions. On the contrary, she had been expecting that he’d want her. But at that moment, his touch tipped the scale of her rage. After what he’d just forced her to do, this was a violation she absolutely could not endure.  


“Please,” she whispered, “I can’t…” Before she could finish her plea, his hand was at her throat, warning her.  


“If I require something of you, then you will bear it,” he said, squeezing the sides of her neck just enough to cause discomfort. Although she knew that she had no power to resist him, nothing about her mindset was rational. She shoved against him, but he was quicker. Her head hit the wall before she realized what was happening, and little pinpricks of light flashed there, before her eyes. Still, she was clawing at his hand where he pinned her against the wall, squeezing harder. He let go just as she began to lose consciousness, and then dragged her to the bed. He pushed her, facedown against it. Around her, sopping wet hair soaked into the bedcovers. He was on top of her then, crushing her down against the bed. She couldn’t help but be reminded of the girl she had just killed in the woods, and how she had pinned her down in the exact same way. He worked between their bodies to undo the laces of his pants. A powerful jolt of dread shot through her, straight to her stomach. Though she couldn’t reach him where he pressed her down by her back, she grabbed at the sheets, trying to get some leverage so she could crawl out from under him. Before she could make any progress at escaping, he was pressing his cock against her. When he shoved into her, it _hurt_. Other than some mild discomfort, he had never before hurt her physically during their couplings. But this? It hurt almost as much as what Roost had done to her.  


She cried out with every thrust, but he didn’t stop. Curiously, he hadn’t used her scar to stop her resistance, though she almost wished he would. The panic she felt was certainly no mercy. Once again, she tried to reach behind her to push him away, but he pinned her arm to her back, twisting it painfully. He held it there, and grabbed at the hair at the nape of her neck with the other hand. His every motion spoke control and power. Sebille’s will was nothing, and his was everything. Overcome by exhaustion and resignation, she buried her face in the sheets, as if she could hide from what was happening to her. But she was not so lucky. As he fucked her, he leaned down to growl in her ear.  


“If I require something of you, then you will bear it,” he repeated, increasing the speed of his thrusts. His fist tightened in her hair.  


“Yes, Master,” she gasped, arching backwards to try and relieve the pressure on her scalp.  


“If I want your body, you will give it to me,” he said, and did not let go of his violently tight grip on her hair.  


“Yes, Master,” she said, forcing the sound out past clenched teeth.  


“If I want you to kill for me, you will,” he said. He emphasized the word ‘kill’ with an especially forceful thrust.  


“Yes, Master,” she said, and tried to still her shaking body.  


“If I want anything that you can provide by your life or by your death, I will have it,” he said, his breathing growing more erratic with every second. Sebille didn’t answer, and he was too near his own climax to care about pressing her for a response. When he came with a low, masculine groan in her ear, she tasted bile. But she lay there, limp and docile, as he finished. He was right. If there was anything he wanted from her, he could have it whether she willed it or not. Her resistance was foolish. Futile.  


He withdrew from her, and still she didn’t move, not even to curl up into a more comfortable position. She heard the click of chains and felt the chill of metal against her skin when he re-fasted the familiar manacle around her ankle. As he dressed and moved to leave, he paused, before opening the door.  


“You did well today,” he said, his voice once again smooth with no hint of his previous aggression. “Next time, you’ll do better.” The click of the lock after he closed the door seemed to echo in her bones. She didn’t cry out her agony into the dark as she had during the journey home. She didn’t pray to Tir-Cindelius for deliverance, as she had during the early days of her captivity. All she could do was lie there and ache as her soul progressed on its way to crumbling completely.


End file.
